


Your hands were on my hips (Your name was on my lips)

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Tim is Dick's Oracle in Blüdhaven AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And — “hey, guess what Babs? There’s a kid here that says he knows Oracle. How many Blüdhaven jailbait kids do you talk to again?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song “Burning Desire” by Lana del Rey.

If the air got any heavier, any sweeter with the soft dresses of sea foam, salty like the tips of his fingers after a fight, quiet like Bruce’s muttered greetings of mornings, Dick might’ve felt completely at home.

Might’ve felt like there is a trick to losing his homes of the past, like the weightlessness isn’t the ocean, might’ve felt like he’s not a runaway of his own kind.

(He swam across the river.Drenched but dry; he’s not thinking about the meaning.)

There’s mud on his heart, clay dripping down his neck in wet kisses, water painting his ankles pale.

_But he didn’t drown._

(There’s not a thing breathless about him; not a thing that’s cold.

There’s not a thing that’s sticky like regret.)

Still — an inch of something is missing from that to settle in, from home to surface too and maybe it’s a feeling in his chest, the draft on his lips. He misses the chirp of his cape, the warm safety of Bruce’s silhouette growing over his cold, bruised shoulders, Alfred’s hands spread thorough the Manor.      

He misses Robin as if it’s a person, someone he lost, someone he had and maybe, maybe someone in him  _did_  drown after all.

(He feels a corpse, on the inside of his skin, feels wishes scraping his insides.)

_Live this through._

A slow week, a shitty job he wants, old bottles of beer he won’t drink out of, bowls of dry cereal and dry laughs; the inches grow on him. Grow from his feet, stain the sunny apartment, wither when he’s stubborn, wither when he’s in a fight, when he’s far from the gravity, the remorse of the ground.

They grow and wither and grow until a boy squeezes past him, says  _this place is a mess_ , swallows the missings whole with his mouth, washes them down with the fuzzy soap of soda, drinks like he’s taking a pill to heal.

(Talks with a smile Dick found even as this kid’s mouth was split, coughs softly and talks with punched ribs and kicked in rasps, says:   _I know who these losers were. That’s more than you do, right?_  and he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, scrunches up his nose at the raspberry stain, sniffs and this short, sharp kid, he —  _can help, I promise. I’ve been living here for more than seven years and — I’ve started digging into the crime scene three years ago. That’s three years of intel. I know the heads, I know the shipments, I know the turfs. I just can’t do anything about it. But you can! Dick you — you_ have _to._ )

And — “hey, guess what Babs? There’s a kid here that says he knows Oracle. How many Blüdhaven jailbait kids do you talk to again?”

“Just one,” she says

Just this one.

—-

_“It really is messy here._

_I like it.”_

—-

With an unshaved jaw and greasy, sticky hair, his Nightwing tights and a Gotham Eagles T-shirt he found crumpled on the floor as pajamas, awkwardly curled on the couch at two in the afternoon with a milk stained spoon still in hand, he’ll admit: he’s not at his most graceful right now.

He’s not awake enough to answer and Tim knocks on the door one time too many before he fishes out the spare key, a key Dick pressed into his palm after the tenth take out in a row has gone cold, and in a minute Dick sleeps through, Tim has slipped out of his sneakers and his feet softly tap a muffled rhythm, his mouth louder than his snicker; it echoes in Dick’s half real dream.

“I’m going in if you’re naked or not~!” Tim’s head tilts with his voice and Dick’s mind skips the seconds of quiet, of Tim’s backpack settling on the carpet, skips to Tim resting his bare elbows on the middle of the couch’s creaky back, skips to Tim’s sympathetic, low hiss.

“Who ran you over?” he blurts out, adds “Whoa is that a  _bite_  mark?” and he dips lower, dips down to inspect Dick’s exposed hip, Dick taps the damp spoon against Tim’s head.

“I got punched really hard, okay?” he grumbles to Tim’s huff, looks up to the centre of his annoyance, to the wet darkening of his hair. “But you can put the Blue Line Gang to the busted list,” he says, stretches from his forearms to his toes and if Tim’s eyes follow the slow tide of his shirt — Dick feels quiet about it. Dick feels warm, feels like the sea at night, feels uncertain and bare and too vague to dip in.

(And Dick, Dick might think about Tim’s mouth at times. About his shoulders when he’s wearing oversized woolen sweaters, about his fingers hitting keys, unlocking screen lips to speak, for Dick, for his Mom, for something in him himself that doesn’t let him go; Dick thinks about Tim in his sleep, wakes up nearly not in love.)

“Man you got some rotten luck. Half of those guys are untrained kids from the BK group,” Tim says, carefully prods at the wound, as if the realization of Dick’s mortality stung like electricity, like a broken bone.

Dick thinks  _We’ve watched each other enough for today_ and looks away, places the spoon back into the empty bowl of leftovers and remembers, remembers that he had a question itching in his throat. “A few of the guys had a tattoo on their neck, some kind of a curled up lizard. Ever heard of that?” he asks and Tim’s expression gets lost in his thoughts, his eyebrows curl towards each other as if the strings of neurons tugged at them, as if every line of his skin were ideas, subtly surfacing, evident but unreadable.

Shaking his head at last, Tim’s thoughts scatter and he bites his lips, tugs at his sleeve. (It’s like an end to a spell.) “Don’t think so,” he answers and Dick can tell, can recognize from the scent that Tim used his shampoo again, only — it’s sweeter. It soaks sweeter into Tim’s hair. “I’ll look into it,” Tim says,  _promises_ , and Dick knows the minute Tim’s laptop opens he’ll start searching, will search until he finds at least a scrap, a faded piece, anything to offer.

(And scraps are enough. Scraps are fine.)

“Hey, when does your shift start?” Tim asks, crouched next to his backpack, opening the zipper with a quiet, mechanical hum, his hands dip up to his wrists.

“Uh… at two something?”

“You’d better move your ass then. It’s half past.”

“What — really?!”

“Really.”

_Shit_.

“Shit.”

Dick lunges from the couch, runs to the shower to wash off Nightwing from his skin, trips on the same corner of the cheap carpet he keeps forgetting about; Tim sighs as he opens his laptop and sits on his legs, huddled to the soft arm rest of the couch.

Five months in, with a good, honest job Bruce hates and Dick needs, Dick struggles for balance.

(Except that Tim, Tim has his stupidly attractive, hardworking, self-destructive, oblivious back.)   

“I got you lunch!” he yells to Dick’s hopping silhoulette and starts hacking, with the leftover of Dick’s warmth seeping through his clothes and Dicks fingers snagging the paper bag from his own.

—-

The thing about Tim is: Tim doesn’t call him often.

He texts, sends pictures, smiles in them and asks about dinner and Dick texts back, makes faces and adds  _with cornflakes_  to every suggestion, he makes Tim huff and laugh and text back.

Tim doesn’t panic either.

(Neither does he cry.)

But he is, now. He’s calling, shaking with messy footsteps, there’s a trembling chaos in his voice, a cold sickness to it, and Dick can hear the salt on his tongue, the breathless fear in his bones and —

“ _Dick! Dick you have to help me, they’re after Dad,_ they’re going for my Dad _, Dick, please —!_ ”

And —

and Dick might be in the Manor, at calm, freezing winter, he might be under a heavy, cozy blanket in one of the studies, and he might be heaving a horrible, sickening dream.

(But he’s not.)

Tim’s voice drops but the call doesn’t, continues, keeps grabbing seconds of time and a door opens, a door slams shut and Tim is running, strangers with rough melodies in their necks cut the quiet and —

a bone cracks.

(Breaks into two.)

—-

_It’s because of my Mom. How I started all of this. She was murdered. They — they didn’t touch her. But they left a mark. I’ve been looking for it, for three years. I might’ve found them, Dick. I might’ve got them._

_…_

_What do I do now?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting is the worst of it.

_((What do I do?))_

_—-_

You don’t die.

 _Don’t die don’t die don’t die on me_ are Dick’s neglected red lights, his bike’s background beat, tires a soothing whisper, an angry, desperate screech, his footsteps branded with weak thoughts and strong fists and Dick — he might’ve never heard a song more honest.  

A song this sincere, this ancient but fresh underneath his lungs; his heartbeat follows.

He repeats and rewinds and wishes, vinyl and hollow songs, cracks and shells of sounds dripping down his spent ribcage; Dick’s mind is rough, louder than a car wreck, louder than a summer storm, born from heat, from thunder, louder than a bullet shot through bones.

(Or _bones_ shot through _bullets_ , he’s seen too many metaphors to run out).

He’s at the door.

He’s where the raw, shallow dent in it is, where the paint is scratched off its wooden skin, Tim’s keys hanging limply off the lock and Dick can’t touch them, can’t ruin their inert slumber and sense of being at peace ( _dead dying_ there—); he presses the door’s chest, right where the wooden tendons shiver through his gloves.

(It opens.)

Tim isn’t home anymore. It’s a fact Dick swallowed down five blocks away from Tim’s room, split open and wrecked, broken down to structure and messes teens can’t create, violence, as quiet as it can be, quiet like human hearts going into shock and Tim’s computer has bled out under the table, memories, _memoirs_ missing and Dick knows Tim isn’t dumb, Tim’s not infected by cowardice or _helpless_ but the crack of bone echoes in the soft cracks of his speakers, echoes like the past and — someone moves through the hall.

A gun stares at the back of his skull but Dick is not chilled by its cold nuzzle, he’s not heated by the press that fires through his synapses, as harmless as he possibly can be: hands up, boots to the ground, air left out.

“I’m not one of them,” he says quietly, and if his voice is rough it’s Nightwing swallowed down his throat, if he shifts angles and catches the neck of the gun he’s in a hurry, if he was ever in love, he’s realizing it now. “I’m here to help,” he says, again, and the gun trembles, impossibly minutely and there is blood spilling silently, he can tell by the rust creeping up his skin, the weight that fuses body to cotton to blood, Jack hisses and keeps being alive; Dick hopes it runs in the family.

“Tim said you’d come. I hoped — I hoped you’d be here sooner.” Jack lowers the gun and presses his arm to the unbuttoned strip of his side and Dick dials Oracle for an ambulance, has to move so adrenaline, affection, panic won’t catch up with his mouth and eyes and fingers; if he’d stayed still he’d be see-through.

“Do you have any clue where they could have taken him, Mr. Drake?” he asks and —

“No.” Jack shakes his head and while it’s been expected, while Dick didn’t dare to think he would, the lead that is stringed through his veins gets heavier, either way. “But —” Jack stretches his arm, bends his wrist towards Dick’s palm and unlocks his fingers, presses something fleetingly light into the cradle of Dick’s glove. “— _this_ might.”

A tracker.

(A freaking — _Tim customized, super light, blends really well with your costume, has excellent GPS and can catch wifi everywhere. And I mean_ everywhere _.—_ matted, minuscule, flawless map, blinking mutely as Dick attaches it to the panel above his wrist.)

Just like that the room fills with urgency again, fills with the song of the ambulance Dick called for a minute ago, seeping in like the very beginning of a downpour and it’s Dick’s cue to open Tim’s window, an unsteady, clear mirror that follows his silhoulette until it blurs to shock blues; Jack slumps and sighs and sits on Tim’s bed.

“Go get him. Go get my boy,” he says and Dick nods, moves, jumps and then he’s on a strangers’ windowsill, two stories down, a foreign life only half an inch of thick glass away, a two second peek until he lands beside his bike, still hot from the rushed, intercity travel, cooling to Blüdhaven fogs and then Nightwing slides right through Dick’s body, settles between his core and the outskirts and he understands clearer now, what Bruce has brought to impeccable perfection, why it’s so frustrating to get through to Bruce’s own thoughts at times, why it’s dangerous to be yourself.

(Dick isn’t made from glass, or iron, or synthetic fiber; he’s _human_ and wonderfully so while Nightwing — Nightwing is not. Dick’s _real_ while Nightwing only borrows his skin, nothing and _everything_ like him and — that’s the beauty of it. That’s the beauty of Nightwing’s fingers not trembling in fear.)

—-

Shockingly, it’s not a warehouse. It’s not a dock that barely breathes, barely survives above water, rotten through with salt, shockingly, it’s not a closed down, boxed up, aged factory, either.

It’s someone’s house, with cheap couches that protest against any movement and chairs that carry a scent similar to school rooms, a rather rough, red carpet that burns his cheek as guy one’s sneaker trails dirt onto his skull and ear, the tiny trickle of red dye spilling from his nose tickling above his mouth and he’s not talking, he’s _not talking, you bags of —_ and then he yelps, bites his mouth rotten, his consciousness losing his thoughts along the way, along the line of the yellowed, off-white paint, posters of movies Tim’s heard of, has slept through at times, one of the glossy covers a reminder of Dick, Dick in his clean, officer shirt, Dick with a hood Tim pulled onto his head in exasperation, moments before, his feet in Dick’s lap and Dick mouthing the words to the pictured scene, carelessly dripping  ketchup onto Tim’s socks and then there’s Dick with a smile that makes up for any sauce between Tim’s toes and it won’t help with the chill in Tim’s knuckles or the unbearable heat in his broken shin but he relearns how to breathe again, focuses on the dip of a button on the couch, on the swirls of wood cut to furniture, on the late night, early morning commercials jumping across channels — they make macaroni and cheese and wait, wait until the fracture under his knee spreads to his spirit.

But it won’t.

He can’t let it, can’t let _them_ make him disappear, can’t let Dad mourn again and he’d be useless dead, useless to Dick and Oracle and to his Mom, totally useless to _them_ so he’s not scared yet, he’s not afraid of being shot to corpses, of being thrown into the rivers of the sea.

(Nightwing is going to find him, he’s going to scold him, he’s going to order his favourite take out and they will talk through the whole of their afternoon soaps and rewatch them later on, after Dick nearly falls asleep in the shower and Tim dozes curled on his sheets, _maybe he’ll realize today_ nestled between strands of his hair and he’s an oracle too tonight and that’s his future, that’s his plan A, he wishes on a star he can’t see.)

((He hisses at the things he can.))

Guy two crouches before his still, bent legs, slightly tapping Tim’s feet with his knuckles, holding a fork he puts to his mouth as Tim heavily heaves a hiss, licks a part of the blood off of his lip, the guy lazily holding a plate and watching him like he’s a tv show, live and uncensored, and if he _wants_ a show, if he really, truly wants to watch Tim live — _then he’s gonna get him_.  

Tim kicks out with his unbroken, unharmed foot, fast enough to jerk the plate out of the guy’s palm, the sticky cheese splattering across the carpet and the front of the guy’s jeans, down his shirt and through most of his face, the plate landing on the floor above Tim’s knee and in retrospection, Tim should have sucked it up, shouldn’t have picked a fight he’s losing in but it’s worth it, it’s worth the roaring in his ears, it’s worth his world getting eaten up by his own body, his own whimper as they break his shin in a second, _third_ place but he faintly recognizes distant, metallic thunder on the road, the windows opened in inches, he’d recognize the sound _anywhere_ and feels a laugh, a smile, simmering warmly in his lungs, on the side of his mouth as his thoughts go numb, as his vision sinks to shaky splatters, to unknown blurs.

(As it sinks to shocking blue.)

—-

Waiting is the worst of it.

Him at the mouth of the alley, them knocked out at the back of the police car, neons ablaze, hurts settling in, Tim in the centre of the medics’ attention, _what is your name can you tell us your name_ and _stay awake, Tim I know you are tired but stay awake it’s alright you’re alright_ and Tim, answering: “I know it’s fine; it’s _fine_.” and then Nightwing speeds ahead, passes the ambulance at a suicidal curve and he’s practically naked after three steps into the dim hall, flashes everyone who cared to look into his bedroom at three at the morning and the laundry is never done in this apartment, sits where he left it when he went to Gotham and he grabs the dirty jeans he meant to wash, a tank top that has a hole at the back and a hoodie he managed to shrink so it’s so tight he won’t properly breathe for _hours_ and Tim’s going to laugh _so hard_ at him, he’s going to bust a rib but all that matters that he is _going_ to, that future tenses are still relevant, that future tenses still have Tim locked into their meanings, all that matters is that the past, the irreal isn’t the only thing left for Tim, now that he’s safe.

(But yeah, he does laugh, that little twat.)

A pretty, softly smiling nurse wheels him out, his nose crowned with a band-aid bridge and an IV trotting next to the chair, connecting Tim to the ground, washing away the salty pain and Dick can’t help but ask “can I?” and she gives him a _look_   — he’s wonderfully, terrifyingly reminded of Donna — and only after Tim raises his head and Leslie calls: “But just this one time.” from the office does she say: “Don’t forget the IV.” and they follow her footsteps to Tim’s bed, Gotham blinking behind the window and Dick feels an itch somewhere at the back of his neck, he’s sure Bruce knows they’re here.

(But does he know why Nightwing isn’t?)

“What are you wearing?” Tim asks him in a raspy, hoarse voice and Dick thinks that — “you’re in no position to criticize what anyone wears, Mr. hospital gown that doesn’t cover anything from the ass down.” and Tim rolls his eyes and laughs anyway, softer this time, looks at his drying, _dried_ cast, curling around his feet, says: “So, apparently my leg is a puzzle for three year olds now. Shouldn’t have kicked that guy’s dinner into his lap, should I?” and he sighs, lies down into the pillow that sinks under the weight of his thoughts, goes as blank as the sheets.

“You shouldn’t have been there, period.” Dick closes the door, his mouth, his lungs, for a second, or two. (And then he’s back.)

“How did they find you, Tim? No one can trace you, except for Babs,” he asks and doesn’t sit in the chair, doesn’t pace and locks Tim within the bed and Tim — Tim looks guilty, scratches his nose right under his band aid and looks at Gotham’s belly, calm and rushed all at once.

“I might have given them a hint. Or two,” he answers, slowly, like he’s speaking a foreign language, like he’s walking across a tattered, rotten bridge.

(And in that instant — something rots within Dick, too.)

“You might have — _you might have given them a hint or two_?!” he shouts, Tim flinches, someone chatters loudly under the window, parts of their voice carried in by a current of the wind, part of it swallowed by Gotham, by Tim’s heart sinking through his ribs.  

“I could seriously punch you right now.” Dick turns away, presses his fingers into his hair, frustration a jittery wave of unrest, he bites at his words.

(They leave nothing on his tongue.)

“Holly would probably kick your ass for that,” Tim mutters, tries a soft joke but Dick — Dick can’t find it funny. (Not now.)

“Holly?” he asks instead and Tim says: “The nurse.” and he’s so — boyish, small, prepared for violence and Dick’s rotting, furious heart falls away, sinks into seas of softer emotions, of softer syllables, there but steadier, there but _hurting_ and “Tim—”

“I know. _I know_ , okay? It was stupid. Straight out _dumb_. I just wanted to — just wanted to — they weren’t supposed to find me at my _home_! The plan was for them find me when I was _outside_ , with _you_ , _waiting_. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ ,” Tim pleads and Dick —

Dick can’t breathe.

“It’s a small _miracle_ that you’re even alive! They could have you just shot you down!”

 “I — I told them I sent a timed e-mail to the police headquarters, with proof that they were responsible for the August Execution. The one that happened two years ago? I had a picture of the mail in my phone, along with the evidence. What they wanted was to make me cancel it or confess the password. I … I knew you’d come.”

“It was still the _dumbest_ , most _stupid_ thing you could have done. I can’t _believe_ you’d put yourself into danger like this!”

“I just wanted — ” Tim closes his fist, searches for a meaning there, instead — it robs him of speech. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, again. “Are you angry?”

 “Yes. Yes, I’m pretty damn angry.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me as your partner anymore?” Tim asks, so quietly it’s nearly soundless and — _that’s_ the gravity that binds Tim’s mouth, the heaviness that coloured its corners into a frown, _that’s_ what stung on the inside of his skin.

(Are they still _us_?)

“How would firing you help anything?” Dick sighs, licks his lips, follows the restless tugging of Tim’s fingers, follows Tim’s worried lead. “We’re still partners, alright? Just let me yell at you some more. You nearly died and practically _volunteered_ for them to do it and I have the right to be angry with you for that,” he says, adds —“At least for today.”

And Tim nods, answers —“Alright.” — and in the curve of a shadow, weaved under his nose, Dick spots a small, fond smile.

(And it’s contagious, too.)

“The clothes ruin the effect, don’t they,” he says instead of the scolds and Tim’s smile grows stronger, captures all of his face.

“A bit. Though by all means, yell at me some more. Or a _lot_ more. I do deserve it, so… Give it your best?” he looks up, watches Dick with enough honesty to terrify a liar and this, this person, this kid, this handsome, smart partner of his, is who he could have lost.

(The strength of the sudden relief shoves him like only Bruce could, in the middle of his back, without any warning or care.)

His arms wrap around Tim’s shoulders, wrap around his back and wrap around all of him, hold him until neither of them can feel their wrists, hold him until Tim dozes within the heat.

(He hugs him, tight.)

—-

They return to Dick’s apartment, Jack pulls the truth out of Tim the day after and sends a handful of mean looks to Nightwing, resting his back against the Drakes’ kitchen window, awkwardly shuffling his boot against the carpet but he’s welcome for dinner and _thank god_ someone decides to rob the bank the moment he picks up his fork for dessert, the subtle scrutiny ending in nonchalant apologies and Dick almost wants to ask Tim if he’s sure Jack was never in their business, but Tim ducks his head and then steals the cake so quick Dick wonders if _all_ of this family aren’t secretly a part of some undercover agent act, when Tim’s hastily hushed: “Your escrima sticks!” reaches his shoulders, Tim leaning out the window, waving them around like they aren’t deadly, _deadly_ weapons, with cake on his face and a vibrant smile that probably disarmed Dick in the first place and — Dick deems the conspiracy impossible.

He picks them up, says: “Goodnight, _Cindy_.” with a wink, with a smirk and jumps away before Tim can swat at him and it’s summer, Blüdhaven dizzy and blue and Dick wonders if Tim was at their apartment, if Jack wasn’t guarding his back, if he wasn’t three feet away — Dick wonders if he would have kissed Tim, right onto his soft, dry mouth.

—-

He doesn’t, and doesn’t and doesn’t and Tim grows out of his fracture, runs all the way to Dick’s office, says _look look I can kick your ass at soccer again_ and sits on Dick’s desk and drinks his coffee and then: walks him home, steals his cap, fishes a muesli bar out of his backpack, gives it to Dick when his stomach grumbles, writes his homework on the counter while Dick goes from officer to Nightwing to _I’m running very very late_ , sleeps in Dick’s bed and wakes up to Nightwing climbing through the shadows of the room, sits up and they watch each other, Blüdhaven creeping around in silence, Nightwing standing and tempted and needy; Tim swallows.

He feels foreign, feels wanted and feared and decides, right there, sneaks out of the sheets, pads over to Dick’s silhoulette wrapped up in Nightwing’s uniform, in violence wildly humming through Dick’s bones, morning shyly hiding behind horizons, in the same place Tim’s words do and he stops one, two steps away from Nightwing, waits, _shivers_ when Dick’s glove hovers over his hip, rides up his shirt to his ribs, strips him to skins and he presses into Dick’s mouth, cold and open and Dick lifts him up, pins him to his heart and Tim robs him of his domino and the kiss ends sweet, ends in _please_ , ends through another; Dick looks for words.

 “ _Tim_ , _I’m_ —”

but Tim won’t let him answer, talks in his stead, fondly, calm, whole. “You’re good.” and repeats, “You’re _great_.” you’re —

in love.

And that’s perfectly fine.     


End file.
